The sheer presumption should irritate me. Instead, I find myself caught between amusement and offense. The audacity of this woman—to walk into my kitchen, handle my possessions, and make herself at home after failing the most basic test of competence.
She pours coffee from the carafe into the mug. Not the French press. Theothercoffee maker. The one I specifically don’t use.
Except for today.
Then she turns, meeting my eyes with unexpected directness, and asks: “Would you like cream and sugar?”
Who the hell is this woman?
“I was asking ifYOUwanted coffee,” I clarify, my voice cutting through the silence between us. The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications I hadn’t intended but can’t take back now. She’s either completely oblivious to the power dynamics at play, or she’s deliberately challenging them. Either way, she’s managed to catch me off guard in my own space—something that hasn’t happened in years.
The effect is immediate and visceral. Pink floods her face—starting at her neck and climbing rapidly to her hairline. Not the splotchy, uneven flush of anger, but the smooth, even blush ofgenuine embarrassment. The kind that can’t be manufactured or controlled.
My cock twitches. Request denied.
This is neither the time nor the place.
I do, however, givemyselfa note.
Revised fantasy: Make her blush like that again. Repeatedly. Under different circumstances. While naked.
“Oh!” The syllable escapes her like air from a punctured tire. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again—searching for words that don’t materialize. Finding none, she does the most unexpected thing possible.
She drinks the coffee.
Not a sip. A substantial swallow. Then her face contorts—eyes widening, throat working visibly as her taste buds register what her impulsivity has delivered.
I watch, transfixed, as she fights her body’s natural rejection response. The battle plays out in microscopic muscle contractions around her eyes, the slight flare of her nostrils, the white-knuckle grip on the mug handle.
She forces herself to swallow. It takes visible effort—the kind of determination usually reserved for much higher stakes than beverage consumption.
What the fuck? The laugh that I’ve been holding in check nearly bursts out of me.
Another note to self: Don’t fuck it up now, Giovanni. She’s the perfect mouse to play with. Perfect. You will never find another one like this.
The laugh dies. “It’s called Kopi Luwak,” I say. “Sourced from Indonesia.” I keep my voice neutral, informational. Like reciting stock prices or weather statistics. “The beans are eaten by civets—small jungle mammals with ringed tails and pointed faces. They consume the ripest coffee cherries, digest the fruit portion, and then excrete the beans intact. Farmersthen collect these beans from their excrement in the wild. The beans are thoroughly washed, dried in the sun, cleaned again, then carefully roasted and packaged before being sold to connoisseurs at astronomical prices.”
I watch her face as I deliver this clinical explanation, taking note of her reaction. The information hangs between us in the kitchen’s morning light, the implications slowly dawning on her as she processes exactly what she’s just willingly consumed.
I pause, allowing the information to land fully. To penetrate whatever mental defenses she might still have operational.
“It’s considered one of the most expensive coffees in the world.”
Another calculated beat of silence.
I offer a small smile. The kind that acknowledges a shared experience without offering warmth.
“Some people say it has earthy notes. I say it tastes like arrogance and wet shit. Which… it kind of is.”
This is where I stop. I don’t reassure her that it’s perfectly sanitary despite its origin story. I simply watch as the information processes behind those expressive eyes.
First comes disbelief—a slight shake of her head, almost imperceptible.
Then disgust—a subtle contraction of muscles around her mouth.
Then embarrassment—renewed color in her cheeks.
And finally, something unexpected—a flicker of defiance. A hardening around her eyes.